Word: musee
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...indeed. Il Duce's knees would bend perforce to the Muse as he passed through the five-foot door to the sword-hung study where the Poet, in cloth of gold and purple velvet, summons servants garbed like monks from their surrounding "cells." D'Annunzio might permit so distinguished a guest to enter his sacred Adriatic Room, lined with stalls from an abandoned church. He would surely show Il Duce where he spends his days of solitary contemplation, the chamois-lined Chamber of the Leper which it sometimes pleases him to call the Cell of Pure Dreams. Here...
...sons, but yet two, Jehosiph, the blessed, and the little one, the son of death. And ah, I am sore to go from them. And from thee too, Jacob, I am sore to part, for we were the right ones for each other. And now thou must muse alone and learn without Rachel who God is. Learn, then, and fare well. And forgive too,' she breathed, 'that I stole the teraphim.' [Laban's household gods.] Then Death passed over her countenance and put out its light...
...papers do not report Mr. Cadmus' reactions. If he is wise, he will return to his garret and get to work on a painting of Washington at Valley Forge. Better men than he have learned that the pensioner must choke his muse, dry his tears, and paint, write, or chisel as he is told. Erasmus, for example, and Samuel Johnson. Only a Michelangelo could take a papal salary, tell the Cardinals to stick to their breviaries, and finish St. Peter's as he damn well pleased...
Author Dickens took to fame like a duck to water, working harder than ever. One popular success followed another from his ready pen-Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, The Old Curiosity Shop. No plodding cultivator of a thankless Muse, Dickens enjoyed not only the fruits of his work but the work itself. He described himself at work on Martin Chuz-zlewit: "In a bay-window in a one-pair sits, from nine o'clock to one. a gentleman with rather long hair and no neckcloth, who writes and grins, as if he thought he was very funny indeed...
...children are fighting with snowballs. Snowballs eventually smash the young man in his statuary form. Dressed in evening clothes, at a table in the snow, he plays cards with the young lady who advised him to walk through the mirror, no longer marble now but a solemn and equivocal Muse. A polite audience chuckles at the game from the balconies of the courtyard. When the young man tries to cheat and fails, he puts a bullet through his brain...